


Maybe We Should

by dreamiflame



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Drunkenness, First Kiss, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-02 11:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10943892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamiflame/pseuds/dreamiflame
Summary: Han is not jealous. Except, maybe he is. Just a little tiny, teeny bit.





	Maybe We Should

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zippit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zippit/gifts).



> Thanks to Rosencrantz for the beta, title and summary suggestions, and for always cheerleading.

Han is not jealous.

Han is very decidedly and completely not jealous, because why should he be jealous? Just because Luke is talking to Lando, laughing at Lando’s jokes and leaning into Lando to hear him when he speaks quietly and letting Lando rest his hand on Luke’s arm and hand and shoulder. None of that is any reason to be jealous.

“You are ridiculously obvious in your jealousy,” Chewie growls at him.

“I am not,” Han says into his mug of ale, and swallows a huge gulp. “Nothing to be jealous of.”

Chewie somehow always rolls his eyes with his entire body. “Just tell Luke how you feel, for the sake of tree and limb,” he hoots, far too loudly. Lando glances over, eyebrows raised, and Han scowls at him. It was a hell of a lot easier to keep secrets when it was mostly Leia, Luke, Chewie and him: neither twin speaks much Shyriiwook.

Lando, however, does.

Han tries to promise dire retribution if Lando gives him away, using only his eyes to convey the threat. Judging from the amused grin Lando gives him in return, Han didn’t succeed. Or perhaps Lando just isn’t afraid of him.

That’s the trouble with threatening old and dear friends, Han muses. They know you’re mostly bluffing, so they ignore you.

He forces his eyes away from Luke and Lando and finishes his drink. While he’s contemplating the empty glass and the merits of getting a different, full one, Leia joins Luke and Lando at the bar.

Han is only somewhat mollified to watch Lando’s attention immediately shift to her. Han and Leia had burned hot, bright and fast, like a dying dwarf star, and somehow, despite everything, they’re still friends.

But that doesn’t mean he likes watching Lando flirt with Leia now any more than he did when they were together.

Luke kisses Leia on the cheek, picks up two pints of ale, and comes directly to Han’s table. Chewie rubs an affectionate paw over Luke’s shoulder as he joins them. Luke gives Chewie a smile at the touch, sliding one glass over to Han. Chewie is a cuddly drunk.

“Thanks, Luke,” Han says, and taps his glass against Luke’s before they both drink. “Lando telling good stories?”

Luke smiles at him, warm like sunshine, and Han tightens his fingers on his glass. He wants to touch. He _always_ wants to touch, but it’s worse when it’s like this, Luke friendly and warm and smiling, and Han, with almost enough alcohol in him to forget what a colossally terrible idea it would be.

“Actually, yes. He was telling me about the job in Risa-”

“Oh, hell,” Han says, and glares again at an oblivious Lando who is currently holding one of Leia’s hands and stroking her fingers with his other. “He didn’t.”

Luke’s grin gets impossibly wider. “He did. I had no idea-”

“Ah, shut up, kid,” Han grouses, but there’s no heat to it. “I was younger than you were when we met. All kinds of stupid things seemed like a good plan at the time.”

Chewie barks out a laugh and ruffles Han’s hair. “And you’re ever so much older and wiser now,” he growls through his laughter. Han makes a face at him.

“Don’t act so innocent, you went along with it, too,” Han reminds him.

For some reason, that makes Chewie laugh more.

Fine. _Fine._ “Fine,” Han snarls and sips his drink. Clearly the universe has declared it Pick On Han Solo Day, and no one had thought to warn him.

Luke’s fingers on his are cool and soft. Han holds in the shiver that goes through him whenever Luke uses his prosthetic right hand to touch him.

“Your skin calibration is off,” Han says, ever the mechanic, even tipsy, and he puts down his drink to take Luke’s hand, searching for the catch to open the access panel. “I could fix that, just need a-”

“ _Han_ ,” Luke says, fond and exasperated at once, slipping his hand free. “You are not trying to fix anything with four pints of Corellian ale in you.”

“Three and a half,” Han corrects, and reaches for Luke’s hand again. He runs his forefinger across the back of Luke’s hand, then his palm, flipping Luke’s hand over as he goes. “Can’t believe you waited so long to tell me what happened with Vader.”

He traces a symbol on Luke’s wrist, feeling Luke give a little shiver as Han crosses from false to real skin and back again. Han has traced the pattern absently five times before he realizes he’s tracing the first of the Corellian wedding runes onto Luke’s arm.

He drops his hand, giving up on the repair job, and trying not to blush. Han picks his drink back up.

“Let’s just chalk Lando’s story up to youth and stupidity and agree to forget about it, all right?” he says, hoping Luke will follow the change of topic. Han would rather be teased over Risa than try to explain to Luke what’s going on in his head right now.

Luke gives him a long, measuring look, but doesn’t push. They talk about Risa, then Han tells an embarrassing story about Lando, to get even and to see Luke smile again, and everything settles back to normal.

Status quo, where Luke and Han are just good buddies, and Han hasn’t been dreaming for years about seeing how Luke tastes.

Lando and Leia have vanished when Han goes up to the bar for the next round. Chewie is saying something low and slow to Luke behind him, but Han isn’t really paying attention. The bartender is a droid with a medical mod, and it’s eying Han like it’s about to cut him off.

Han gives it his best innocent look. “Last round, I swear,” he says, and lays his credit chip on the bar. “And I’m not the one driving.”

“Last-round-table-twelve,” the droid agrees, and fixes the drinks. Han puts his change in his pocket and heads back to Luke and Chewie.

Chewie has a long arm draped around Luke again, and Luke is scratching the spot on Chewie’s neck where he likes it best. Han sets the drinks on the table and sits down.

“Last round,” he says, and they tap glasses. Chewie growls a truly filthy toast just as Han takes a sip, and he barely manages to swallow and not spit his mouthful of ale at Luke.

The huge furry idiot is hooting with laughter now, and Han wipes his mouth.

“Why I put up with you...” he says.

Luke’s forehead crinkles. “I didn’t catch all of that. What did he say?”

Chewie hoots again and starts to repeat himself, slowly so Luke can sound it out. Han smacks his arm. “Not really fit for polite company,” Han tells Luke. “Chewie gets a little vulgar when he drinks.”

“Don’t we all?” Luke asks, and Han shifts in his seat and resolutely does not think of all the vulgar things he would like to do with, to and for Luke Skywalker.

He makes a spirited effort not to think of them, anyway.

Han finishes his last drink far too quickly, and ends up watching Luke as he drinks, the way his voice box bobs in his smooth throat as he swallows, the way a stray trickle of ale shimmers as it slithers down his neck. Han fists his hands, hoping the bite of his nails into his palms will help distract him.

It was easier to ignore how attractive Luke was when Han had Leia right in front of him. But Han is single now.

And so is Luke.

Luke puts his empty glass down and wipes his mouth. “That’s it, then,” he says.

Chewie yowls in agreement, also empty. “Time to take him home and finally make a move?” he says. Han gives Chewie a glare.

“Sure,” Luke says, and Han’s head snaps back around. “I’ll walk you two home.”

Saints and stars bless how difficult some Humans found Shyriiwook, Han thinks. He gets to his feet and sways a little, only now feeling all the ale he drank. He wraps his arm gratefully over Luke’s shoulders when Luke steps into his space, and they weave their way out and home.

Chewbacca keeps up a running commentary about life, the universe, and why Humans are really terrible at road construction as they walk. Han huffs out a laugh or two and a counter argument about sentients who mined metal but still chose to live in trees. Luke just keeps him mostly steady, warm and close.

At his door, Chewie crushes them together in a huge group hug before he keys the door open and staggers inside. Han hears the crash of Chewie knocking over a chair as the door shuts.

“He’s fine,” he says to Luke’s worried look.

Luke closes his eyes, something in his face changing, and Han stares at him in wonder. It doesn’t look like much, when Luke uses the Force, but at times it’s almost like Han can feel it.

He’s leaning in, fascinated, and he abruptly realizes he’s too close when Luke’s eyes open, startling him. Han sways back, out of Luke’s hold, but feels invisible hands catch and steady him.

“Using the Force’s cheating,” he scolds.

Luke steps into Han’s space again and goes back to holding him up, Han’s arm draped over Luke’s surprisingly solid shoulders.

“Not if you’re a Jedi,” he says, and Han snorts.

They wobble on, making their way down the hall to Han’s room. “Luke, what do Jedi do?”

“In general?” Luke sounds amused, and far more sober than Han feels.

“For love. Or, you know, dating.” Dating. Han snorts again. Give him a little bit too much of ale and he turns back into a stripling.

Luke is quiet for a moment. Han tries to crane his neck to see Luke’s face and nearly knocks them both over. Luke steadies them, his arm warm and strong around Han’s waist.

“They didn’t,” he says finally. “The code, the Jedi code during the Old Republic, it discouraged attachments.”

“Oh.” Now Han feels discouraged. Discouraged, and a little bit sick, and like he might cry. The idea that Luke, bright, beautiful, caring, loving Luke never gets to have anyone, ever, makes a lump grow in Han’s throat. He swallows hard and reminds himself that Han Solo, smuggler extraordinaire and hero of the Rebellion, is not a weepy drunk.

They stop at Han’s door, and Han can't look at Luke. If he does, he’s going to lose it.

Luke, alone forever. And he, Han, is never going to have any kind of a chance.

He focuses on the lock pad. Han has to key in his code twice, because he’s seeing double. From the alcohol, not because his eyes are a little wet.

“Well, that’s rough,” he says, once he finally manages to get the door open.

“Han,” Luke says, touching his cheek, and Han looks at him, blinking his eyes clear. Luke doesn’t look sad. He looks pretty amused, actually.

“That’s what the old Jedi did. But I’m not an old Jedi.”

And then he leans up, and kisses Han, soft, sweet glide of his lips against Han’s surprise parted mouth. He dips his tongue inside to rub against Han’s, there-and-then-you-missed-it, and before Han can do more than start to move his mouth, Luke steps back.

It was so fast Han feels like he got caught in a slipstream.

“Call me tomorrow,” Luke says, smiling. His lips are just a little bit damp, and Han wants to kiss him again, get more of a taste. “Let’s talk about what you want when you're sober.”

“You,” Han says, too fast, way too fast, and Luke’s eyes crinkle like he wants to smile but doesn’t want to hurt Han’s feelings. “I have for years.”

“When you’re sober, and not hungover,” Luke says, and leans up again. Han meets him halfway: slick soft press of mouths, a quick tongue swipe that has Han swallowing a groan, then Luke is out of reach and Han sways, unmoored.

Force hands hold him up and guide him inside. “Talk to you tomorrow,” Luke says as the door shuts, and the invisible touch gets Han to the wall outside the fresher before it fades. Han stumbles the rest of the way inside, slaps on the light, grins at the star struck look on his reflection, and punches the air.

He’s far too old to be gloating about getting to kiss his crush, and he’s all alone besides, but since his crush is Luke Skywalker, living legend and Rebel hero, Han cuts himself some slack. He does a wobbly sort of victory dance around the fresher before using it and gulping down three pints of water. Then he stumbles to his bedroom, shedding clothes as he goes.

When you’re sober, Luke had said. Han falls into his bed and grins into the pillow. He can do sober. He can wait a little while longer.

It’ll definitely be worth it.


End file.
